


Independence Night

by AWomanOfLetters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: I is for, Soul Selling, Writing Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:42:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWomanOfLetters/pseuds/AWomanOfLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does it take to persuade someone to sell their soul?  Sometimes, not very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Independence Night

She stood on the edge of the bike path by the lake, just above the rocks, and looked out over the water, her long black hair blowing in the mild breeze. The full moon had just risen; its reflection was a golden highway across the dark water, flickering and gleaming and beckoning her forward. It was the kind of night where you felt as if, if you walked just right, thought just right, believed just right, you could step down onto it, walk east for hours in the darkness, let the lights of the city fade away behind you.

She had been at the club with the gang. Chaz and Bobby and Liam had been waiting for their gig to start; they had all been standing around a small table littered with empty glasses and bottles, shouting at each other over the loud, beating music. And then, in a break in the noise, Chaz had looked at her, and started telling a story about her latest piece of artwork, and how silly it was that she was working so hard at it when she hadn't had a showing for months, and how nobody did multi-media any more. Then he and Liam started one-upping each other about the band's new success, laughing and slapping each other on the back.

She had just bit her lip, looked down at the table, drawn aimless circles in the puddle of beer in front of her, ignoring the sparkling bokeh effect that the tears gathering on her lashes made of the lights.

Lizzie had cornered her in the ladies room.

"Why do you let him do that to you?" she asked passionately. "Your art is good. You've gotten great reviews. The guy at The Reader interviewed you just a few weeks ago. Fuck him and his stupid-ass self!"

_Because I love him._

She hadn't said it, just shook her head, changed the subject. On the way out, Lizzie dragged her into a bear hug, whispered in her ear, "You are worth more." Then they had plunged back into the crowd, the sea of sound, the shifting lights, dodging between the dancing bodies, back to their table.

Moments later, Chaz had said something new to belittle her, something that sliced her soul into ribbons yet again.

It had been the last straw; she had grabbed her purse and keys off the table, walked out of the club, walked away from the million cuts and slashes, walked as far as she could go, until she ended up here, on the lakefront, in the dark, watching the moon rise and listening to the soft slosh of water hitting the breakwater and wondering just what to do now.

She heard footsteps, and turned her head to see a short businessman in a black suit walking down the path toward her. As he passed under the streetlight, she saw a beard, his hands in his jacket pockets, and then nothing more, as the streetlight flickered and died.

He stopped a safe distance away and stood staring out at the lake with her in companionable silence.

She had almost forgotten he was there when he said, quietly, with a slight English accent, "It's beautiful."

She nodded, saying nothing. He glanced sideways at her. "Whoever he is, he's not worth the tears."

The lake, the moon, the golden highway crossing the water all shattered, blurred, as she began silently weeping again.

"Easy for you to say--you're old!" she said with the careless scorn of a twenty-one year old who had all of her life ahead of her. "You couldn't understand..." Her voice was thick with tears.

He puffed out a small laugh. "Child. It's because I'm old--older than you know--that I can say, been there, done that, and it's not worth the tears."

She looked at him, this quiet stranger in black. "Four years. We've been together four years. We came out here on our first date. He held my hand. He kissed me. He made me feel...beautiful."

The stranger turned to face her. "And you are. Beautiful, that is."

Oddly enough, even though it was the middle of the night, in a lonely, dark lakeshore park, and he was a total stranger, an unknown male, she didn't feel afraid of him, and the comment didn't seem strange, or creepy. It was the way he said it, as if it were the bare truth.

She listened to the waves for a few moments. The stranger bent down, collected some rocks, and began tossing them, one by one, out over the water.

"He said he loved my art. He loved my hands. He loved the way I moved, the way I talked, the dreams I had. And now..."

"Now...?" he prompted.

"Now." She blinked back new tears, wiped the old, cold tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Now he says, 'Beth, don't fiddle with that shit', or 'Look at you, you've got that paint stuck in your hair again, it makes you look like a slob', or 'Can't you clean that plaster shit out from under your fingernails, why do you mess with it anyway when you're no good'..."

The stranger tossed another rock, listened to it splash into the water. "Ah," he said quietly, neutrally.

"I love him." Then she drew in a shuddering breath and said slowly, "I hate him. I don't know why he keeps tearing me down. I wish..."

The stranger tilted his head to look at her. His eyes glittered, reflecting the light on the bike path much further away. "You wish..."

She clenched her fists.

"It all changed when his band took off. Now he's got groupies. Girls in skin-tight jeans with their hair all just so, their makeup perfect, they hang on him, they tell him he's so good, so wonderful. He drinks it in. It's like he's drunk on the success. I wish..."

"Go on..."

"It's ugly. It's mean and petty and jealous."

He just waited.

"Oh, I'd like to see the success fizzle out, see him spend a year or two watching it all fade away, the girls go away, until he has nothing left but me. And while all that's happening, my art is taking off, I'm selling pieces, I'm getting new showings and people are noticing me. And I've long since walked away, left him behind, I'm secure in the knowledge that, yes, I'm good, I'm a good person, I deserve happiness and contentment and love and friends, and maybe, just maybe, a little success doing what I love..."

She paused and looked out along the golden highway sparkling and dancing, and finished up quietly, "Without someone constantly telling me how worthless I am, how shitty my work is, how sloppy I look, a thousand little tiny comments cutting at me until I feel an inch tall..."

The tears started seeping out again.

The stranger rocked back and forth on his heels for a little while. Then he turned his head back to her, and said, "I can make it happen for you."

She eyed him sideways, dubious, hoping this whole strange, comforting conversation wasn't some kind of weird come on by an older guy in his fifties wanting to pick up a young chick.

He laughed softly. "No, sweetness, I'm not trying to hit on you. I'm in the business of making dreams come true, you see. You agree to my terms, and you are guaranteed all of the above, for ten years. And at the end of ten years...well..." He shrugged. "Then the terms come due. All I need is you to sign over your soul, and you get your boyfriend's career slowly falling into the loo, your career taking off, friends, love, happiness. Revenge. Growth." He shrugged again. "It's all on you, pet. Say yes, and it's all yours. Say no, and..." He paused and looked back out over the lake, shied another stone. "Well. I don't lie. You can always do it all on your own; it's there. It'll take longer. And I can assure you, I've listened to them and your boyfriend's band won't last long, whether you deal with me or not. It's up to you."

It was a magical night, so she believed him. Completely. Oh, yes, strange to have the devil--he had to be the devil, right?--show up by her side on the Chicago lakefront and offer her, little old her, nothing her, a deal. But she believed it, believed him.

She looked at the moon, the lake, the stranger. To be free of the paralyzingly self-doubt which had grown larger and larger with every little snide comment, every little sneer. To be free of the horrible way love was fading and fear, misery, hate were growing.

Was it worth it?

She turned to the stranger. "What do I have to do?"

He smiled. It was a slightly sad smile. "Just agree. Kiss me. Wait ten years, and I will return to collect."

She drew in a deep breath. "Then I agree."

He stepped forward, placing his square hands gently on either side of her face, wiping a tear from her cheekbone with a thumb. He leaned toward her, drew her into his arms, kissed her softly on the lips. It was oddly chaste.

"Done. Ten years, Beth." He hugged her close for a moment more, then dropped his arms, turned around, and sauntered away, hands in his jacket pocket again.


End file.
